


chancer

by todareistodo



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Christmas Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:08:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21692578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todareistodo/pseuds/todareistodo
Summary: four times ben fails to kiss harry under mistletoe and one time it doesn’t matter
Relationships: Ben Chilwell/Harry Winks
Comments: 5
Kudos: 34





	chancer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JustinTimberlake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustinTimberlake/gifts).

> <3
> 
> took some liberties with what constitutes mistletoe 
> 
> (also 4+1 because i’m thick)

“It’s November.” Ben groans.

Harry rolls his eyes. He’s lying flat on the bed, half-dressed. Shirt but no trousers, one sock, like he got distracted whilst he was getting ready and then forgot about it. His thighs tense minutely and Ben doesn’t think about looking away because it’s Harry.

“Team Christmas night out is tonight.” Harry tells him, determinedly focusing back on the telly.

“Because there’s no international breaks in December.”

“Bloody hell, stop being difficult.” Harry whines, turning the telly up in a blatant attempt to drown him out.

“Home Alone 4, too? Real shocker.”

He settles on the edge of the bed, close enough their bare legs brush. Harry shivers at the cooling water on Ben’s skin, and curls away on his side.

“I like it.” He murmurs into the duvet.

“Sooner we get out of this room, the better.”

Harry eyeballs him and tells him he accidentally used the last of his hair gel. There’s mirth in his eyes as he attempts an apologetic face that only makes him look lopsided, and after a brief slanging match and a few pillows chucked around haphazardly, they manage to fix the lampshade and make it out in time.

Ben brushes the fluff off Harry’s clean white polo shirt as they’re waiting to go in, brushing a hand over his hair that’s coated in _his_ hair gel to fix where it’s fallen out of place in the wind. Harry turns around to beam at him, so wide Ben could count every tooth. He shakes his head and resists the urge to ruffle his newly arranged hair, squeezing his shoulders tight between his fingertips until he yelps instead.

“We stand no chance with him.” Harry pouts, gesturing towards Ruben who’s juggling more girls than Ben can really count.

“Yeah, but don’t you think he looks like a penguin with his hair like that.”

Harry snorts loudly and unattractively into his sleeve, and Ben tries to halt the drunken blister of pride he feels at making Harry laugh so unreservedly. There’s something about the way he laughs, eyes closed always, completely and utterly lost in it, that makes Ben grin helplessly, too.

“We’re too short.” Ben surmises, a little before he realises that Harry has wandered off and he’s talking to himself, cradling a vodka and orange juice that’s eyewateringly high in its vodka content.

Ben considers muscling through the girls and asking Ruben to share, but he’s not that drunk. He’s the level of pleasantly intoxicated where he’d like to stand on a table and tell everyone he plays for Leicester City, actually, had a start or two this season, up and coming, mate -

The man he’s ended up telling this too is excitedly ignoring the Leicester part, more interested in finding out if he’s met Steven Gerrard and looking increasingly defeated as Ben explains that, well, no, he hasn’t, because he’s only played in the FA Cup and -

He’s left by him too. When he manages to find Harry propped against a wall, swaying dangerously in something like time with the music, he complains about it until his lips start to stick together because they’re so dry, and then he guzzles the rest of his drink, which tastes like pure vodka, and it’s the final blow to his already deteriorating vision.

Ben leans forward, everything a little blurry. The lights bleed across them like watercolour on wet paper, spiralling outsides and blossoming from tiny pinpricks when he blinks. Harry brushes him off. They’re standing a little too close together, leaning against each other for what Ben can foggily assume is support, but what really feels like a burning need to be touching. He cocks his head, trying to rattle the half-made thoughts in his head into linking up, but that just tips his head against Harry’s, and now they’re forehead to forehead.

“You’re _so_ freckly.” Ben mumbles. His lips might brush against Harry’s skin, he’s not sure.

Harry sighs. “Yeah.” And Ben nods overaggressively, like Harry just said something legendary.

“I had a girl.” Harry mutters, lazily waving his arm in the vague direction of the whole club. “Dunno where she’s gone.”

Ben breathes out. He can’t be certain, but he thinks it makes Harry’s eyelashes flutter and he’s just arrested suddenly, twisted in the realisation -

“Because you’re too pretty, mate.” Ben tells him assuredly. “Trust me.”

Harry hums. He pushes himself away using the hand he has in a tight claw over Ben’s shoulder that he couldn’t even feel. He stares above them until he slowly starts laughing. It’s liquid, soft and molten gold, and it melts over Ben’s skin. He could stand here forever, swaying, listening to that, he decides. Wouldn’t be a bad life.

“Mistletoe.” Harry manages to splutter out mid giggle, pointing upwards, and then with a grip on Ben’s wrist, he points up with his limp hand too.

Ben squints, but sure enough. “It’s fucking November.” He whines. “What on earth.”

“I told you.” Harry says. Ben doesn’t remember being told, but he doesn’t remember not being told so he stays quiet. “Christmas night out.”

“Oh.”

They rock together, pathetically in rhythm. Ben stares at the mistletoe until his eyes blur completely, and then he looks back down at Harry, who’s watching the mistletoe, too. His gaze skirts back down gradually, like he doesn’t have full control of his vision and Ben wants to laugh at that but something in his brain is demanding he stay quiet. Their eyes meet, met a good while ago, neither of them moving. Ben wonders if he should just lunge, plant a slobbery kiss on Harry’s lips so they can laugh about it and move on but Harry’s moving closer and if he’s moving closer then Ben should probably do that too, it’s only polite. He wets his lips and closes his eyes slowly, shuffling closer until he can feel the warmth of Harry’s breath on his lips and -

“Fuck, I’m gonna throw up.”

And Ben is left no time to feel disgruntled at being left under the mistletoe, even as a joke, because Harry is lacing his way through the crowds of people like a dog doing an agility course and he forgets all about where he’s standing because the image is so funny he has to lean against the wall to keep himself up.

* * *

“Mate.” Ben groans. “Harry. Help me.”

He can hear Harry chuckle. “What’s happened?”

“I can’t move. I’m dying.”

“Call 999, then.”

“Harry.”

“Right, fine. What’s the address?”

Someone’s prodding at his eyelids. Stroking his hair? There’s an aggressive bubbling sound. Ben tries to chase his dream, even though he’s forgotten the storyline, but there’s a voice chanting his name through fits of laughter. He moans and flings an arm blindly in the direction of the noise. There’s an indignant whine that tells him he met his target.

“Charming.” The voice mutters, and Ben lifts an eyelid just enough to see Harry fiddling with the travel kettle and rubbing his forearm.

“I take sugar.” Ben mumbles, wriggling back under the duvet.

Harry clucks his tongue. “I know.”

His hair is soft and brushed across his forehead. He smells of lemon body wash and expensive shampoo; freshly showered. He smiles fondly at Ben over the edge of the cover and pulls it down to let him sip at the water he’s holding. The way his face falls is truly comical; Ben’s mouthful of water gurgles in his throat and goes down the wrong way.

“What on earth are you wearing?!” Harry asks, eyeing the red spaghetti straps falling off his bare shoulders like they’re a personal insult. He’s a skittish animal, shuffling backwards.

Ben hums and goes to sit up - breathing harshly through his nose, and out through the gaps left in his clenched teeth as his ears ring uncomfortably - the duvet falling away and revealing red velvet and white fur trim. Harry’s gawping at him.

“Is that a _dress_?” He breathes incredulously. Ben’s surprised he hasn’t shielded his eyes yet, with the blatant discomfort painted across his face.

Ben smirks. “Yeah. Had heels and all.”

Harry chokes on whatever he was going to reply. His cheeks match the dress, eyes wide and panicked. If Ben had the presence of mind to find his phone, he’d be filming every second of this. He should probably get emergency call ready for when Harry gets the full effect.

“Bloody hell, Winksy, it’s just a man in a dress.”

Harry squeaks, squeezing his eyes shut. When he opens them, Ben is hopping from foot to foot on the cold hotel floor, pulling the hem of the dress down where it’s ridden up whilst he was sleeping. He knows it’s short anyway, barely skirts below his arse, trim tickling against his bare thighs that were a bugger to wax.

“You’ve got mistletoe in your hair.” Harry tells him, voice still strained with a strange tension Ben can’t pinpoint.

“Oh.” He combs through his hair, broken bits of twig stuck to his hand with the help of leftover hair gel. “Give us a kiss, then.”

He makes an exaggerated kissing face that freezes Harry in place, eyes wildly darting around in search of the nearest exit. Ben snorts and pushes past him to get to the bathroom, wondering if a few paracetamol would do the job of sorting out the discomfort wedged firmly in his chest.

“When you’re dressed.” Harry calls through the bathroom door, voice returned to a more level pitch. “I’ll take you out for breakfast.”

“Don’t you spoil me.” Ben gargles around his mouthful of toothbrush, massaging a hand across his heart to ease the strange feeling weighing him down.

Harry drives with one arm propped on the window ledge at all times. He sings along to the radio unashamedly even when he doesn’t know the words, butchering All I Want For Christmas Is You with his eyebrows drawn in tight together. It makes something thunder dangerously in Ben’s blood, how he’s so genuinely concentrating on incorrectly remembering the lyrics, tapping his feet in time. It makes Ben want to do something stupid like kiss him on the cheek and smile at him all quiet and genuine. He eases the nagging desire for touch by ruffling Harry’s ungelled hair roughly. It falls across his forehead in little tufts. Ben snickers as he tries to brush it away with vigorous head movements. He takes pity and strokes it back, saying nothing, feeling nothing.

“Buy me some of your shampoo for Christmas, mate.” He teases when he pulls his hand back into his own lap. “Very soft.”

Harry smiles - the kind he tucks into his chest and shakes his head to get rid of, all soft and pink around the edges. Ben wriggles in his seat impatiently. They’re in the suburbs now, nice neat lawns silver with frost, front rooms crowded with Christmas trees. The familiarity tingles like warm water, Harry still singing along to himself.

“I’ll buy you whatever you’re having.” Harry says as he leads them into a little cafe, all pastel colours and pot plants. It’s both completely un-Harry and very Harry at the same time. “Would recommend the breakfast but it’s December, innit.”

Ben scoffs - if he wants a fry-up he’s having a fry-up, overload of matches be damned - but the idea of greasy meat makes nausea ripple in his stomach and he has to swallow and breathe slowly until it subsides.

“Just a coffee and a pastry, please.” He murmurs, Harry shrugging and ordering with more than enough pleases and a healthy tip. Ben rolls his eyes but cuffs him on the ear lightly, affectionately, as they find a table.

“What a sweetheart.” He coos.

Harry scoffs. “Brave of Leicester letting you off to get plastered in London when you’re playing this much.”

He shrugs, fiddling with the sugar packets and arranging them in a little square on the tabletop. Harry absentmindedly joins in; when he looks back down, it’s a Christmas tree, Harry smiling to himself quietly. Maybe it wasn’t quite so absentminded. He wants to roll his eyes and stand on Harry’s toes and brush his thumb across the back of his hand. He hates that.

“I’m their star player. Gotta keep me happy.”

Harry giggles even as he murmurs about his cockiness. “Dress part of the deal, then?” He teases, even though it loses its effect when his cheeks are that pink and his voice that strangely strained.

Ben grins, linking their ankles under the table and tearing his croissant into pieces. “Of course, mate.” 

Harry chuckles, still a little flustered. Ben watches him, laughs with him, chats with him nonsensically through a mouthful of pastry and hot latte. Being with Harry is different, always, somehow, in a way Ben has never been able to understand. It’s just like a subtle shift in his insides, in his brain. He doesn’t understand, but he feels it, and it’s not unpleasant, it’s just how it is. Harry grins helplessly at him with a bit of tomato ketchup smeared around the corner of his lips and Ben’s arrested by this almost painful fondness. He takes the piss out of him instead of allowing it to take hold, and ruffles Harry’s hair when they hug goodbye even though some weird, obviously still alcohol soaked part of him wants to give him a sweet little kiss.

* * *

“Come over.”

Harry laughs, startled. “I haven’t asked in advance.”

“Oh c’mon. You can do my Christmas tree.”

“You know the rules, Chilly. I don’t wanna get fined.”

“Oh, because you’re really gonna notice a grand or two out of your pocket.”

Harry rolls his eyes. Son flings an arm around his shoulder and they laugh into each other’s necks for a minute, murmuring furtive and quiet. Ben watches unamused.

“You’ve lost touch with reality, mate.” Harry tells him once Son has detached himself and trotted off to clamber onto Dele’s back.

Ben groans and bodily shoves into him with the weight of his shoulder as they walk back through the tunnel. Harry’s shirt has ridden up, sliver of tanned skin between the waistband of his shorts and hem of his top, bony hipbones. He’s always wondered why his skin isn’t freckled when his face is so much, but it’s not something Harry could really give a definitive answer to, so he’s never asked. Ben tugs the shirt down and Harry smiles at him in thanks.

“See you soon then, Chills. Happy birthday!” He grins at the doorway to the away changing room. Ben can hear strange French music through the crack where he’s started opening the door. He winces; it sounds awful.

“I’ll be waiting by the front desk. In 10.” He smirks.

As expected, regardless of his goody-two-shoes rule abiding, Harry finds him once he’s dressed, Spurs tracksuit and hastily styled hair.

“I’m only coming because I won’t see you for your birthday.” He tells him, in what Ben assumes is an attempt at sternness. He snorts.

“Mate, like you aren’t up Poch’s arse. He’d let you get away with murder.”

Harry groans, whines, makes a massive deal of pretending to turn away but Ben just laughs loudly and grabs him by the shoulders. He shoves him through all the necessary doors, hands still gripping his shoulder blades even though Harry was struggling for thirty seconds tops. If he tells himself it’s still part of the joke, Harry will know it’s part of the joke too.

“Move to Spurs?” Harry says in the car. half-joking, half-genuinely curious. Ben raises his eyebrows, scoffing.

“Fat chance.” He doesn’t look over. “I wanna get a bit of silverware.”

“Oi!” Harry punches his arm, well-placed enough it’ll probably bruise but Ben can’t let on Harry Winks’ punch might have hurt a bit.

“You’d do it for me, though.” And it’s a joke, obviously, but he sounds so sure, and when Ben glances over his eyes are pitifully, laughably wide and shiny.

“Fuck off.” His bark of laughter sounds a little startled. What is _wrong_ with him? “You wish.”

It’s weak, but Harry luckily doesn’t retaliate. He just wriggles down in the seat and crosses his arms, smiling out the window all self-satisfied and proud of himself. Ben smacks him upside the head and laughs for so long his lungs hurt when Harry yowls.

“Make yourself at home.” Ben tells him when he lets them in, turning all the lights on with a clap that makes Harry snort. “Tea?”

Harry nods eagerly and wanders off into the lounge. Ben flicks the kettle on and races upstairs to the storage room, carrying the box of Christmas decorations downstairs with a lot of unattractive grunting and a near-slip on the second last step.

“Are you taking the piss?” Harry asks when he drops it with a worrying crash onto the lounge floor.

He quirks an eyebrow. “No? I wasn’t joking, Winksy, we’re doing my Christmas tree.”

Harry laughs at him, incredulous, rummaging for his phone in his pocket. Ben can hear the tap-tap-tap of the keys and he rolls his eyes as he swirls the teabag round. He’s probably bitching to Dele, all whiny and moaning. He eyes the salt on the side and wonders if it’s worth dumping a bit in his tea, filming it for his private instagram. He thinks about how he wants Harry to dress his entire lounge for Christmas, and decides against it.

“Why me?” Harry whines when Ben wanders in with his tea. He takes it with a murmured cheers, before the whine is back. “You’re such a lazy arse.”

“I’m helping.” Ben snaps, rolling his eyes. “I’ve seen your Christmas tree, and it’s banging. Take it as a compliment, Jesus.”

Harry mumbles to himself a bit more as he rummages through the box of decorations and Ben knows, distantly, the fact they nag at each other only means they’re that much closer. It doesn’t stop him feeling fucking ridiculous for smiling fondly over it.

Harry turns the telly on and puts on a Christmas special on Gold, or some other such channel only someone with a name like Harry watches, and he only bitches a little as they dress the tree pride of place in Ben’s lounge. Ben lets Harry climb on a chair to stick the star on top, and he gets him in an affectionate headlock when they’re done.

“This has been your birthday present.” Harry murmurs once he’s escaped his hold, but he’s smiling softly and it’s honestly comical, like something from a gross romcom Ben absolutely does not watch, that they both glance up at one of those strange mistletoe ornaments in ridiculous unison. And it’s not even like it’s real mistletoe, or even something Ben believes in as a symbol anyway, but something in him panics, tells him he needs to reference it to clear the air and so -

“Well, then.” Ben blusters. “C’mere.”

He expects Harry to laugh and call him a twat, or laugh and peck him on the lips sillily, or maybe even laugh and kiss him, maybe not laugh at all, but instead he just stares. Stares, face slowly growing redder, eyes slowly drowning in clear panic. Ben wants to laugh and brush it away, move on as quickly as possible because it’s a _joke_, he wasn’t being serious - although he is faintly disgruntled that him, Harry and mistletoe always leaves him abandoned - but Harry blurts something out that’s rushed and reddens his face further and darts away. Ben hears the bathroom door lock with a click and the sound of running water. He groans and aims a punch at the bloody mistletoe ornament. It spins round on the branch and ultimately settles, unharmed.

They watch Home Alone when Harry emerges, a slightly more normal colour and capable of meeting Ben’s eyes. By the time Kevin’s successfully set up the booby traps, they’ve been laughing and taking the piss out of each other for a while. Harry’s even resting his head on Ben’s shoulder, and if he’s not okay with Ben playing with his hair he doesn’t say anything about it.

“Where’s your guest room, mate?” Harry yawns as the credits roll, standing in front of him, arms in the air as he stretches. His t-shirt rides up again, high enough that, considering how close he is, Ben can see the dusting of hair below his belly button. He feels his cheeks pinken when he takes in their position, too, and then he wants to smash his head against something very hard and very painful so he forgets ever thinking that.

“I’ll show you.” He says, leading Harry up the stairs without looking back, wondering what on earth has happened to him.

Harry bounces onto the bed once Ben lets him in, beaming up at him.

“Thanks, Chills.” He sounds so content. “Night night.”

Ben feels that flare of affection like a pain in his gut, but he can’t help but grin back.

“Sleep well, mate. Cheers for the tree.”

Ben locks himself in the bathroom once he leaves. He rubs his hands across his face, groaning loudly and repetitively.

“Need this like a hole in the bollock.” He snaps to himself, brushing his teeth too hard and screeching through gritted teeth when he stubs his toe against the counter.

* * *

“Christ are you whipped.”

Ben gapes at Madders. He manages to close his mouth and scoff, roll his eyes, shrug, make every kind of dismissive gesture he possibly can, but Madders continues to stare him down, and continues with the unimpressed raised eyebrows.

“What d’you mean.” It falls so flatly it barely sounds like a question. Madders replies anyway.

“You’ve only got a dopey look like that when you think you might actually fancy them. But it’s Winksy. You’re whipped for Winksy.”

Ben laughs. He hopes it sounds as derisive as he’s attempting to make it, but it only sounds pained, and defeated. He pulls himself in, sits up straight and puts his phone away, snapchat from Harry unanswered.

“Y’know when you said you wanted to shag him, I thought you were just drunk.”

Ben groans. He rolls his head against the head of the sofa to stare at Madders. If he’s going to accept this, he may as well get some guidance. He softens his eyes until he hopes they’re imploring.

“Don’t do the kicked puppy act, it’s pathetic. You’re worse than him for that.”

Ben scoffs, chewing over and swallowing the snappy need that rises in him to defend Harry just a little. He tucks his knees up and scowls, sending Harry off a snap that doesn’t reply to what he said because he can’t remember their conversation. Something about the John Lewis advert, he thinks; Harry begging Ben to just give it a watch for the cute dragon.

Madders is watching him shrewdly, which is a disarming feeling. “Wine and dine him.”

“Like it’s that bloody simple! I’m not even sure I fancy him!”

Madders has the gall to laugh. Actually, loudly, lengthily belly laugh. His eyes are condescendingly pitying now. He taps Ben’s hand, snickering as Ben yanks it away from his reach.

“Keep dreaming, babe.”

Ben thinks that’s the end of it, until Madders screeches about it across the training pitch, painfully unaware of there being a time and a place, and by lunchtime, everyone in the squad is talking about how Ben Chilwell fancies Harry Winks. It’s a tabloid shitstorm waiting to happen. God, Ben could kill Madders.

“Get him under the mistletoe.” Vardy shrugs, butting in with the comment over a plate of mashed potato. Ben glares at him, daring him to continue. He does so, gladly. “Looks like he goes in for all that shit.”

He follows it up with a confident forkful of mashed potato, flicking the fork towards Ben when he’s done as if to say _trust me and you’re welcome_. Ben eyeballs him until he turns away, unbothered. Madders shrugs when he looks back.

“He’s got a point, mate.”

Ben can only be thankful they’re unaware of his and Harry’s little mistletoe meetings. He feels stupid for even considering them as such, when they weren’t kiss me under the mistletoe in the doorway moments in the first place, but it’s the principle that aches. Aches so much Ben would be lying if he said it doesn’t scare him off actually, deliberately trying again.

He’s lying on his front in bed, face smushed up against the pillowcase so he’s gonna have a load of red crease marks across his cheeks in the morning, wondering if he can be arsed to open his advent calendar he forgot to do in the morning, when Harry calls.

“Hiya.” He says breathlessly. Ben replies in kind, words muffled by the pillow. He rolls over, spreadeagled on his back.

“Wanna give you your birthday present and that. D’you fancy going to dinner?”

Ben smirks, warmth fluttering through him like a smouldering butterfly. “I guess I can work my busy schedule round that.” He teases. He can _hear_ Harry roll his eyes.

“Oh, way to make a bloke feel special.”

“Send me the details, then -“ Call him baby, his brain demands. Baby, baby, baby “-mate.”

Harry hums affirmatively and Ben squirms back into the warmth of his bed, curls up on his side as he listens to Harry chat mindlessly. It’s just nice to listen to the low, continuous hum of his voice, all warm and sleepy-soft. He yawns and nearly calls him baby again.

“Look, I’ll let you go.” Harry tells him, yawning loudly himself. “Ta ra.” And Ben smiles into his duvet, batting away Madders calling him whipped in his head.

He eyes himself critically in his car mirror before getting out. His hair tickles across his forehead, the longer strands he needs to get cut drifting into his eyeline when he doesn’t brush it backwards. Harry doesn’t like it gelled - although he did share that tidbit in relation to the hair gel Ben leaves on all towels when they shared rooms - which is hypocritical more than anything else, but Ben is nothing if not considerate.

Harry is already seated, wearing a white shirt under a thick woollen navy jumper that he wants to take the piss out of for being positively post-war, but the desire to hold Harry to his chest when he’s wearing it swallows up the taunt.

“Alright, mate?” Harry asks sincerely, eyes wide as he buries his head into Ben’s shoulder. “Look a bit gormless.”

“That’s rich.” Ben snorts, earning himself a little elbow in the ribcage.

He tells Harry to get a glass of wine because he’s driving, and there’s something about the way his cheeks pink and his eyes brighten and soften somehow all at once, that’s mesmerising. Harry pays the bill and says it can be his birthday present, and Ben can’t even muster up the effort to fake annoyance at that because he knows Harry will have a present for him waiting, carefully thought-over and wrapped perfectly (Ben knows that because he’s made Harry wrap all his presents more times than he’d care to admit).

“Feel like I haven’t seen you in ages.” Harry tells him in the car, all pink from the few glasses of wine. “We were with England only a month ago, though.”

Ben coos. “Bless. You just miss me.”

Harry shrugs, quiet and red-cheeked. ”Shut up, Ben.” He murmurs, words blending into one, and there’s something vaguely intimate about using his first name.

Ben can feel heat creep up under his own collar, and he’s gripped by the desire to do something stupid like squeeze Harry’s thigh or peck his cheek. He pats his knee instead, like a middle-aged man terrified of intimacy. If Harry wasn’t watching him carefully, he’d smack his head off the steering wheel.

“You seem on edge. You sure you’re alright?”

Harry’s looking at him, eyes open with so much earnest concern, and it’s a look that hasn’t changed. Ben’s seen those eyes since he was 16, Harry’s been _giving_ him those eyes since they were 16, and nothing has changed but how Ben reacts to them. He wonders how he ever looked at Harry, so desperately in love with everything that he’s in love with, and didn’t feel a little bit in love, too. He groans aloud as he thinks about it, and promptly decides not to.

“Yeah. I’m good.” He offers with a little smile that Harry returns softly.

Harry lets them into his house quietly, immediately offering a drink and telling Ben to make himself at home, put on whatever he wants. Ben breathes in, so deeply it rattles in his chest, and then breathes out.

“Mistletoe.” He points out, finger half-heartedly pointing towards the sprig hanging from the top of the lounge door.

Harry giggles sheepishly. “Yeah. I just. Yeah.”

“Yeah.” Ben says absently.

They stand in each other’s space, too close but not close enough, and Ben feels apprehension and fondness and desire simmer in his stomach. He’s not nervous, not scared. They could stand here forever, and it’d be fine, because Ben has known Harry for longer than they probably realise, long enough to know when Harry had a Beckham mohawk, long enough to know the number of his Mum and Dad’s house because he’s stayed over there before. He’s known Harry long enough that the months they go without seeing each other don’t change all the things he knows about Harry, like the cologne he’s always worn and the exact colour he likes his tea. He’s known Harry long enough that now they’re here, Ben isn’t scared.

Harry smiles at him, soft. He’s not red, he’s not darting to the nearest exit. He’s just standing, watching, smiling, so close. He laughs, light and quiet, moving forwards slowly. His lips brush across Ben’s, delicate.

“I thought you were always taking the piss out of me.” He mumbles.

They’re so close Ben can’t actually look him in the eye. He focuses on the clump of freckles over the bridge of his nose. “I can be even thicker than you, sometimes.” He teases, squeezing Harry’s waist in reassurance, as a sorry.

Harry snorts. Their noses brush, nuzzling together. Harry’s eyes slide closed, breath smooth and calm, and Ben leans in.

* * *

“Y’alright?” Ben mumbles, rubbing his eyes blearily. “Up early.”

Harry rolls his eyes but unfolds his legs and raises himself off the settee, smiling.

“It’s Christmas.” He laughs, wrapping his arms around Ben’s neck and tucking his head under his chin. His nose digs into the dip of Ben’s collarbone.

Ben smiles against his skin and kisses his temple lightly, smoothing a hand down his back. His skin’s warm through his top, and when Ben snakes a hand under the hem, it’s warm and soft to the touch. He skitters a hand across his spine, chuckling into Harry’s hair when he shivers against him.

“If I got a picture of this, you’d be ruined forever.” He mumbles into fluffy hair. Harry groans and it rumbles in his chest, vibrates between the two of them.

He pats him on the arse, squeezes once and peels himself away. Harry is glaring at him, pulling up the sleeves of Ben’s training kit so they bunch up around his elbows. Ben kisses him again, softly on the mouth this time. It’s all so pathetically sweet but it’s Christmas, so he thinks it’s allowed.

“Move to Spurs, then it’ll be guilt-free.” Harry mutters, moving past him to turn on the lights on the tree and turn the telly on, collapsing back onto the sofa and spreading out. “Make the tea.” He pleads, pouting up at him. Ben scoffs but acquiesces. He really has no leg to stand on when Madders take the piss out of him, but that won’t stop him trying.

Ben’s Mum phones whilst the kettle’s boiling. He answers, holding it right up against his ear so he can hear over it. Once the noise subsides, he can hear Harry chuckling away to himself in the lounge. It makes something large and insistent flutter in his chest, his stomach tingling. He curls his toes and concentrates on what his Mum is saying.

“Yeah, happy Christmas to you, too, Mum.”

“What are you doing this morning?” She asks. He can hear his Dad yelling at the dog in the background, his brother shouting something not very Christmas-appropriate about what Harry and Ben will be getting up to.

“Me and Harry are just gonna watch telly.” He shrugs. His Mum tries to silence the little cooing noise she makes, but Ben hears all the same and it makes his cheeks flush hot pink. “I’ll get him to make breakfast.”

“Ben.” She admonishes lightheartedly. “Hand me over to Harry, I want to wish him a happy Christmas.”

“Mum.” Ben whines. He’s got the phone wedged between his ear and shoulder, walking half a mile per hour so the tea doesn’t slop over the sides. “You’re seeing him in a few hours.”

His Mum indignantly argues back but it’s lost in the air between them as Ben holds the phone out to Harry. He grins up at him, fringe brushing his eyebrows, and takes it with a brush of fingertips.

“Hiya, Amanda.” Harry chirps. Ben shakes his head fondly, wriggling in behind Harry so Harry is leaning against him, back to chest. Harry turns his head to glare at him for a second before nattering back into the phone. “Yeah, Ben hasn’t given me a present yet. Bet he hasn’t got me anything.”

Ben flicks his arm and Harry yelps, pressing back further against him in response. He snakes his arms around his waist and holds him, chin hooked over his shoulder. He nuzzles into Harry’s neck, not bothering to listen to the conversation, dotting kisses across his skin instead. Harry’s breath hitches a little when he nips behind his ear.

“Well, we’ll see you later.” Harry says, a little breathily. Ben smirks smugly. “In a bit.”

Harry doesn’t even bother to pass the phone back, hanging up as soon as his Mum cheerfully wishes them goodbye. He turns his head, searching for Ben’s mouth needily, and Ben huffs out a laugh against his lips before granting him his wish, all teeth and tongue and a little bit inappropriate for 8AM on Christmas Day. Harry sighs, pure contentment, and wriggles against him impatiently.

“Turn it over.” Ben mumbles against his neck, sucking a bruise into the hollow of his collarbone where his family hopefully won’t see. “I’m not doing this watching The Snowman.”

Harry giggles but rummages around for the remote anyway, changing the channel blindly. He spins and sits on Ben’s lap, arms around his neck and tongue in his mouth, humming endlessly. Ben strokes his hair back from his forehead, tugs it lightly and feels this warm rush of too much at the noise Harry makes and can’t hold back.

They rest their foreheads together for a minute, breathing each other’s air. Ben wonders if it’s surreal having a lap-full of Harry, all freckles and pink cheeks and Ben’s training top, panting lightly and chewing on his lower lip that’s reddening as it tenders. There’s a splodge of purple blossoming prettily around the neckline, and Ben put it there. He shivers.

“Happy Christmas, baby.” He whispers, laughing as Harry rolls his eyes.

“Don’t bloody call me that.” He snaps half-heartedly, mouth curling up into a grin at the end. “Happy Christmas, darlin’.”

Ben’s nose wrinkles in disgust and Harry giggles, kissing the tip and then brushing their noses together. Harry lays against him for a while, chests pressed together. Ben can feel their breath falling into sync, unconsciously maybe.

“C’mon.” He mutters. “Make breakfast.”

“Oh, lovely. Don’t say please, it’s alright.”

Ben laughs and it flutters Harry’s fringe that’s fallen into his face again. Ben pushes it back and makes a face at him, scrunched up. Harry sticks his tongue out in reply and climbs off him clumsily, Ben groaning when he kneels on his thighs and steps on his toes. Harry sniggers but drags him up and into the kitchen with their fingers linked. Ben smiles at the mistletoe over the kitchen door before he’s pulled inside, brushing his thumb over the back of Harry’s hand.


End file.
